Back to Life, Back to Reality

It had been a whirlwind of a week, what with deadlines, my old crew from the US coming and taking over my office, and nights out with drinks and meals a little beyond what I'd normally like to spend.

But as of noon on Thursday and continuing on through the weekend, everything has been right in the galaxy: Alannah is here.

With my beloved wife now in Paris, it feels as though the move is complete. That I we can start living my our life in France. An adventure that started in February can now officially begin in mid-April.

We've still got some stuff to sort out. You know, little things like getting Alannah a transit pass, hooking her up with French classes, and, oh, that whole pesky visa situation. But there is now a sudden sense of normalcy to life, the universe, and everything.

For me, at least. Alannah still needs to find her bearings, figure out how to get around, and adjust to living in an alien country. Not that I'm fully there myself, but the prospect of doing this together has me excited.

At this moment it's as though nothing's changed. I'm sitting in my cold-ass office (the heating is busted), writing up a storm of documents, and waiting for that whistle to blow so I can slide down that brontosaurus tail and call it a day. Only this time, when I scream "Yabba dabba doo!" I'll mean it.

Terminal Blues

I hate those couple of hours spent at foreign airport terminals before the boarding call.

It not only means I have oodles of time to kill thanks to hotel front desk staff who insist you leave four hours before your flight - time that's often spent unnecessarily spent at the Duty Free - but I also dreading going home.

Not that this trip's been all fun & games. Quite the contrary, if you've been reading up. And I miss my lady somethin' fierce, and can't wait to see her when I arrive in San Francisco.

But there's always the spectre of returning to the U.S. of A. I hate the feeling of dread knowing that in roughly 11 hours, I'll be greeted by some of the most unprofessional, uncouth immigration officers this side of the former Soviet Union. I sit here knowing that in half a day, I'll be completely incensed by the impatient, ill-mannered bastards who don't know how to stand around a baggage carrousel. And I can feel my sphincter tighten at the prospect of hearing nothing but "Presidential" this and "primary" that and "delegates" whoozawatsits for the next ten months.

If home is where the heart is, then I have one very hardened heart. (Probably more so now with last night's foie gras flowing through my bloodstream.) It's tough being in other countries and experiencing life at a different pace, with different values, and with a different perspective, only to come home to things to realize that all the people you love are surround by things you're starting to hate.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not some America-hater. But with every little footstep on foreign soil, I hate more and more what America's becoming. Impolite. Arrogant. Paranoid. I take criticism decently, so I don't feel offended by how my people and my country are handled by the foreign media. By taking a step back, I can see the ridicule heaped upon our once-great nation for championing liberty and democracy while leaning toward oligarchy and theocracy.

This isn't to say that Europe is perfect. France elected some Bush-lovin' righty in their most recent presidential election, and the previous president had to have a run-off with a freakin' Nazi. But in day to day life, everything is still imbued with a sense of politesse, that life is more than your job or your political party or your stock portfolio. That it matters more how your steak is cooked than which kook you voted for. That it matters more that you say "bonjour" to everyone you see than to call in the TIPS line because they look a bit dark.

Oh well - the grass is always greener on the other side. I should be thankful that I'm coming home to a wonderful woman, a loving family, awesome friends, great co-workers, and the best fucking city in all of America*. For whatever that's worth.


---
*San Francisco, for all you misinformed people who thought your hometown is better.

On the Road Again

The hotel's not very central, but nice. There's free WiFi. The bathroom is huge. It's clean as all hell. It's comfortable enough for me to get some rest before a couple of days of meetings.

And did I happen to mention that I'm in Paris?

Oui, mes amis, I'm in Paris again, although this time on business. I've got two days of meetings at my company's headquarters, so this is a brief sojourn, but I've got a weekend to kill ahead of the actual business part. And this time, it feels different. Besides the spectre of actually having to do work in an actual office while abroad (none of this desperately-seeking-WiFi stuff like in Japan), this is one of those cities that I've already touristed to death.

So despite it being a chilly 35ºF outside, I've got the windows wide open so I can hear the hubbub on busy Rue Général Leclerc below. The green grocer across the street is making some noise shuffling boxes of fruit and veg in front of his store. I can hear children talking their baby-talk as their parents go in and out of the boulangerie-pâtisserie at the corner. The calm of Saturday evening suburban humdrum is occasionally broken by somebody yelling, a siren wailing, or horns honking.


Indeed, it's Saturday night and I'm just sitting in my little hotel room, enjoying the ambience, and relaxing.

Not to say that it hasn't been a full day. After a comfortable but entirely sleepless 11-hour flight from San Francisco, my friend and colleague Julien - who just happened to be in Paris - picked me up and we went to drop my stuff off in the 17e. This is the neighborhood I stayed in last time, and I love it. Away from the touristy masses, but intoxicatingly Paris just the same.

We went toward l'Opera area (here's my favorite photo from that quartier the last trip) and met up with his cousin for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. Yes, I actually voluntarily decided to forgo steak frites and other such artery-clogging French delights for a tropical shrimp salad at this organic/all-natural Belgian... *gulp* CHAIN. And it was good. Damn good. God, even the chains here are better than stuff at home.

That was followed by a jaunt to the crazy retail area (home to the Galleries Lafayette, etc.) to pick some stuff up for Alannah. And when I say crazy, I mean batshit, balls-to-the-wall insane. Right now is the time for soldes, the twice-annual sale period that makes America's Black Friday look like a walk in the park. You see, there are only two periods where stores can legally have a sale (this prevents back-handed markdown practices), and with savings up to 50%, people go nuts. Whacko. As in "I'd rather just stay inside than brave those crowds to bar any potential claustrophobia" crazy.

And I'm doing exactly that. I've checked into my hotel. I'm hanging out in my skivvies despite the freezing cold. And I'm taking it all in.